


Day by Day

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Series: Crinkle Dot [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 08:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13701150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: Michael's never really been one for blaming life when it shits all over you.





	Day by Day

**Author's Note:**

> [Because reasons.](https://vagrantblvrd.tumblr.com/post/170921258431/i-found-a-note-in-my-phone-from-season-i-must-have)

Michael's never really been one for blaming life when it shits all over you. 

Oh, sure.

Michael bitched up a storm, yelled for all he was worth when it turned out he wasted his life savings moving out to Los Santos on the promise of a good job waiting for him. 

One with better hours, better pay, better everything and it sounded like a great opportunity at the time. A way to get out of Jersey, see more of the world and shit, even if he'd heard some horror stories about Los Santos. Crime rates and statistics and all that, but had figured it wasn't all that much worse than any big city in the country.

Put in his two weeks at his job and packed up the shit he needed. Either sold or donated what he didn't and got the emotional goodbyes out of the way. Promised his mom he'd call and write regularly and be a good son even though they both knew it was bullshit.

Bought that one-way plane ticket to the shithole of a city he was going to be living in for the next however long. (Ignored that tiny voice in the back of his head that had been asking him if it was smart to give up a stable life for something else the whole damn time because he's just that kind of stupid.)

And then when he got to Los Santos, found out his bags ended up on another plane and got lost in the shuffle. Found out the moving company he paid to get his shit across the country had a bit of an 'incident'. That his things were at the bottom of a lake somewhere in the Midwest, and oh, hey, have a voucher on them for the next time he hires them.

Fucking Christ.

He ended up using what he has left in his checking account to buy a few essentials and gets a room at a motel. Paid for a week's stay and called up the small company that hired him - 

And discovered they 'went out of business' in the three days since he last talked to his new boss.

Turned on the news and saw the block the damn place was located on in flames and some bland-faced reporter babbling about some robbery gone wrong. Bunch of assholes who panicked and blew up a tanker truck at an intersection.

Stared at the place he was supposed to work, great opportunity and possible future burning away while the coroners bag up the idiots responsible in the background.

Michael did all that, sure, but not once did he blame life for being a fucking bitch about it, no, because he has to find a way to salvage the clusterfuck his life's become, and that's going to be a goddamned _blast._

========

Michael gives it a couple of days of being a sad sack of shit, curled up under scratchy motel blankets and listening to the sounds of a strange city around him before he shakes himself out of it.

Drags himself out of the bed and takes a shower. Heads down to the convenience store across the street for crappy coffee and stale donuts and pretends he doesn't notice the way the clerk watches him the whole damn time. Twitchy as hell and hands under the counter where he probably has a gun of come kind.

Takes a little walk down the block and enjoying the sun and warm weather. Corner of his mouth kicking up a bit because it's still fucking cold back home, snow and ice and a whole lot of misery of a different kind.

When he gets back to his motel room he gives his mom a call, tells her everything's great, don't worry, he's an adult.

By the time he hangs up, he almost believes it the amount of times he has to reassure her he's doing great out here. Cool boss and decent co-workers and so much bullshit falling out of his mouth he's surprised he can't taste it.

The motel has shitty internet, but it's enough to do a job search. Find some places that are hiring and he grabs the complimentary notepad with the motel logo at the top to write down a few likely looking places. 

County hospitals and other independent companies because he's had great luck with those, but it's not like he can picky here. A few hundred dollars left to his name and a crappy motel room and goddamn, he should have listened to that damn voice telling him he was fucking up a good thing by coming out here.

========

One of the hospitals snaps Michael up right away, doesn't pay as well as the job he was promised out here, but it's the best one out of the bunch. 

The people he talk to have the look about them of people who've been working too-long hours for too-little pay for too fucking long, but they're honest about it. Tell him outright it's a shitty job and a worse city for people like them, that he's going to see a lot of ugly things that'll stick with him but he's known that for a while now with the career he's picked.

They give him an advance that he puts into that crappy little motel room and some essentials. Starts looking around for a place he'll be able to afford and isn't impressed with any of the offerings. Still, they're better than living in a motel and he works out a budget, stashes away money for a deposit and all the other shit that goes into proving you're a responsible adult worthy of renting someone's crappy apartment.

Gets to know his co-workers, stressed out and tired and heavy on the black humor. Have to be, he realizes, because this city is a bitch of a place. 

Crime everywhere you look and it's gotten to the point that people just take it in stride. 

And, hey, he gets it, he does. 

You can't just live in fear every goddamn moment of the day, but there's a difference between showing the world you're not scared and having an incident board hanging up marking the last time your place of work was robbed. 

The whole city is fucked up, and Michael definitely should have left when he realized he that, but for some stupid, stupid reason he didn't. Decided to figure his shit out and deal with it and this is how it's played out.

He finds out that a lot of what goes on in Los Santos isn't quite normal.

Sees the way his co-workers forget to properly see to their paperwork sometimes. Hospital staff turning a blind eye when people Michael's seen on the news time and again get brought in. People with gunshot wounds and stab wounds and burns and worse from explosions. Fucking _wanted criminals_ and all that happens is they get patched up and slip out before the cops catch on.

He's smart enough not to ask about it directly, figures it's in his best interests not to do that in a city like this.

Gets told stupid, pointless bullshit about that's just how things work in Los Santos. That things aren't quite as clearcut here as they are elsewhere. Watch out for the cops instead of the criminals, which. 

Goddamn his life.

========

A couple of months after Michael becomes gainfully employed, he finally moves out of the motel.

Signs a lease that feels more like signing what's left of his soul away and gets a shitty little one bedroom apartment in a neighborhood that's seen better days.

Not the safest place, but his landlord swears no one's been shot there for at least a year, but hey, Michael's an EMT, so he can handle it if someone does, right?

Michael had stared at the guy until he'd coughed uncomfortably and knocked fifty dollars off his rent in case any _incidents_ might arise. 

Which, extremely fucked up, but whatever. Michael will take it as long as he's not paying out the ass for his shitty apartment.

========

The thing of it is, Michael actually thought his asshole landlord was kidding about that whole “incident clause” in his rent. Figured it was something along the twisted sense of humor most people seem to develop living in Los Santos, but apparently not.

Michael can honestly say he never expected to come home to find some guy bleeding on his couch, and yet here he is.

Staring at some guy bleeding on his couch and acting like he's a patient in a doctor's waiting room. Fucking reading a magazine that Michael knows wasn't there when he left that morning, which means the guy brought it with him.

“Gunshot wound,” the guy says, hand pressing down on a bloody wad of material on his leg. “Don't think it's still in there.”

Michael's coming off a brutal shift, car accidents and gang turf squabbles that bled into a couple of local business and other shit he'd rather not think about. He's tired and hungry and wants nothing better than to sleep until he has to get up in the morning, but of course he can't with this asshole taking up space.

“Yeah?” Michael says. “Good for you, buddy.”

The guy blinks, like he wasn't expecting that. Wasn't expecting Michael to be put out that some stranger broke into his place to bleed all over the crappy thrift store furniture Michael bought because he got tired of sitting on the floor all the damn time. Wasn't expecting Michael to not just jump at the chance to help out a wanted criminal like that's a thing he's been waiting on his whole life.

And, oh, yeah. Michael knows who the guy is. Recognizes that damn leather jacket with the blue shoulders and the silver stripes. That stupid mask just tossed on the coffee table, bloodied up a bit and apparently there's fucking face paint under it. 

“Hey,” the Vagabond says. “What about the Hippocratic Oath?”

“I'm not a doctor, you fuck,” Michael snaps. “So, no.”

Which, technically true. Michael didn't take the Hippocratic Oath, but he is an EMT. Has been doing a pretty good job of living by the oath he did take for a while now. The odds that the Vagabond knows there's such a thing are pretty slim.

“Well, shit.”

Michael shrugs and drops his bag by the side of the couch. Lets the guy sweat it for a little bit longer because that's what he fucking gets for pulling this shit.

Watches him look at his leg and what looks like someone's shirt covered in blood that's definitely ruined considering his options.

And then he gets up – or tries to - this awkward, painful progress that has Michael grimacing at how fucking dumb the guy is. Has Michael stepping forward and putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him, forgetting that maybe that's not the best idea in the world at the time, but fuck it, because the idiot's going to hurt himself like this. Make his leg worse, and fucking fuck, of course he's this stupid.

“Fuck, fuck. Dude, no. Stop, you're going to make it worse. Jesus Christ, _stop_.”

Surprisingly enough, he does. 

Tenses under Michael's hands at first like his first instinct is to fight - and Michael files that little nugget of information away for a later time when he can reflect on what a fucking stupid thing he just did - but for now there's that fucking leg of his to deal with.

After Michael gets him sitting again, he makes sure the idiot's going to stay put before he goes for his kit and starts going through it for what he needs. Feels the Vagabond watching him carefully the whole time, quiet and thoughtful and fucking annoying about it.

“I thought you didn't take the Hippocratic Oath,” he says, when Michael comes back over to get a look at his leg. 

There's something almost smug to it that has Michael looking up him. This big, scary guy with the shitty clown make-up and fucked up leg. Goddamned idiot, thinking Michael wouldn't just call the damn cops on him.

“You want to hobble on out of here and let that thing get infected, be my guest,” he says. “Otherwise shut up and let me take care of it.”

The Vagabond laughs, little huff of air and does just that, letting Michael work in peace.

========

It's not like it turns into a thing, after that. The Vagabond breaking into Michael's place when he's gotten himself shot or stabbed or knocked around by some fuckers, no.

Just.

It's _something_.

The kind of something that has the fucker hiding knives and God knows what all over Michael's apartment like some kind of murderous squirrel no matter how many times Michael yells at him for it. Doesn't stop the asshole one damn bit because Michael keeps finding shit when he least expects it, almost cuts off a finger when he finds a knife hidden under his couch cushions when he's looking for the goddamned remote of all things.

Has Michael bitching at him for bleeding over his shit, doubtless losing him his deposit and God knows what else with the amount of bleeding he does in Michael's apartment.

“Fucking Christ, again?”

The Vagabond shrugs, sheepish smile on his face as he holds still while Michael pulls shrapnel out of his back. Metal clinking and clattering as he drops it into a cracked cereal bowl.

“The explosives went off early,” he says, like _hey, no, these things just happen_. “I didn't get out of range in time.”

Michael snorts, because yeah, no shit.

“You don't say.”

The Vagabond sighs, so very put upon because clearly Michael is a heartless bastard who doesn't care about his very difficult life. 

========

Michael gets a bad feeling when he and his partner are headed back to the hospital at the end of their shift and get one last call.

“Right,” Michael says, because that's what they always say, isn't it?

They head out to a shady part of the city and that bad feeling gets worse and worse until they pull up at a stoplight with no other cars around.

“This is some weird shit,” his partner says, like victim number one in any good horror movie. 

“Yeah,” Michael says, drawing the word out.

He's starting to wonder if he's going to be victim number two, or if he gets to be the traumatized survivor when a fucking sports car whips around the corner and slides to a stop in front of the ambulance effectively blocking the road.

He hears his partner mutter something that sounds astoundingly like _"oh, fuck me"_ when a pair of familiar figures get out of the sports car.

Flashy car and flashy clothes and really stupid looking sunglasses and the goddamned Vagabond at his back.

“Fuck,” Michael's partner says, and keeps on saying in this flat little chant, “ _fuckfuckfuck_.”

Michael glances at him, sees the guy's in that special place of _holy fuck, this is fucking terrible_ and watching those two idiots walking up to them.

The one in the sunglasses is all smiles and – oddly enough – British accent as he waves a gun in Michael's partner's face and prattles on about needing the ambulance for a heist they're planning. Sorry about the fake call, but we needed to get you out here and please be a love and make this easy for them, yeah?

Michael tunes him out as he looks to where the Vagabond's standing on his side of the ambulance. No mask today, which means Michael gets to see the crooked smile on his face and the sheepish way the guy's pointing a gun at him.

“Fucking really?”

The Vagabond shrugs, jerking his chin towards the asshole with him and says, “Hey, this is all Gavin's idea.”

Like that even means anything to Michael, but sure, okay.

Fucking steal a goddamned ambulance like it's nothing, like they won't need it in a city like this, why the hell not.

“We'll give it back in perfect condition,” the Vagabond says, confident that he's telling the truth as he sees it. And then has to go and ruin things by adding, “Probably, I mean. Hopefully.”

“I fucking hate you,” Michael says, getting out when he hears his partner do the same behind him. “So fucking much.”

========

They never do get the ambulance back, lost to an explosion or some other bullshit, but a very generous mysterious benefactor gives the hospital the money to purchase a replacement a few days later.

Michael rolls his eyes when he gets home after hearing the news and finds a note on his kitchen counter that just says, _Oops_ , on it with a sad smiley face.

'Mysterious benefactor' his ass.

========

A few months after that and Michael and his partner get called in to deal with the aftermath of a bank robbery that didn't quite go to plan. 

No one's dead, thank God, but there were some touch and go moments with the hostages.

Michael ends up treating the one who was used as a hostage. A tall guy with his hair pulled up into a dumb little man bun. Wide blue eyes and this look to him that has Michael wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. 

Michael's eyes narrow at the quiet thanks the man gives him, something familiar to it that catches his attention. Makes him look a little closer, little flare of anger and annoyance sparking up when he realizes why.

“You son of a bitch,” Michael says, voice lowered to keep from attracting unwanted attention. 

The Vagabond smiles up at him as he pulls the blanket closer, terrified victim who's so shocked by everything that happened to him earlier he just can't bear to talk about it just yet.

The way the goddamned vultures posing as photographers seem to be snapping pictures of him they must think he strikes a tragically beautiful figure sitting here like this.

Fucking _asshole_.

========

Michael doesn't have time to be sick, can't afford it.

So of course he catches the damn bug going around. Something mean, vicious, that lays him out for a good to days before he feels strong enough to wobble his way to the kitchen for something to eat, stomach grumbling.

Only - 

“If you're bleeding somewhere, you might want to see an actual doctor,” he says, sudden bout of dizziness hitting that has him shutting his eyes as he leans against the wall for support. “I don't think getting puke in whatever injury you have at the moment would be good for it.”

There's a pause, significant enough for Michael to open his eyes and look at the figure standing awkwardly in his living room.

“...I'm not?” The Vagabond says, sounding like he's not a hundred percent certain of that himself, but trying to sell it anyway. “I don't think I am, anyway.”

Michael sighs, but he's a disgusting piece of shit right now and just and ends up trying to cough out his lungs. Feels hands guiding him towards the couch and a calloused pal on his forehead as sinks down into the cushions.

“The fuck are you doing?” Michael asks, when he has his breathing under control.

The Vagabond's hovering, practically wringing his hands and looking like he has no fucking idea what he's doing, either.

“You're sick.”

“Thanks for being a judgmental asshole,” Michael says, just to be contrary. “Also, fuck you.”

The Vagabond stares at him for a long, long moment, looking less awkward Victorian virgin and more like the idiot Michael's used to seeing. Doesn't look like he's bleeding, but the guy's surprised him before. 

“Okay, that's. Not what I mean, but okay,” the Vagabond says, mostly to himself, and fucking _really_.

“Think you can grab that Gatorade out of the fridge for me?” Michael asks, achy and tired and not really up to being the functioning adult here. 

The Vagabond disappears into the kitchen, rattling around for a bit before appearing with the Gatorade and what looks like a bowl of soup.

Soup that Michael knows for a damn fact did not exist in his apartment in any form prior to this. 

“Again,” Michael says, squinting up at him. “The fuck are you doing?”

Michael gets treated to what he hopes is the rare sight of the Vagabond fucking blushing in embarrassment because he doesn't have that dumb mask or the stupid face paint on right now. Just that dumb face of his, worried look in his eyes and wry twist to his mouth.

“You're sick,” he repeats, and sets the soup and Gatorade down on Michael's coffee table before taking a step back. 

Like Michael's some skittish stray he's dealing with.

“Is it poisoned?” Michael asks, sitting up to poke at it. “Dare I hope it will grant me the sweet, blessed release of death?”

The Vagabond gives him an odd look, like he's not really sure if that's Michael talking or whatever disease masquerading as the common cold doing its best to kill him.

“Not this time, but I've got some stuff back home that might do the trick if you'd like.”

Michael snorts, manages to keep it from turning into a hack, disgusting mess of snot and regret this time, so points to him for that.

“Save that plan for later,” he says, and takes a tentative taste of the soup.

Not that he doubts the Vagabond's cooking ability, just. You know. The fuck is even going on right now?

The Vagabond _hmm_ s, like _ah, yes, duly noted_ , and Michael, okay. 

“Thanks, asshole,” he says, trues to make it sound as grudging as possible, but really? Kind of hard to do when he's got this fucking idiot bringing him _soup_ because he's dying from a cold. 

That gets a laugh from the Vagabond, dumb and dorky and Michael looks away because this is really, really fucking stupid of him

Los Santos is a rough city, full of assholes looking to make a quick buck and to hell with whoever gets in their way. He's seen the aftermath more than once, done what he could to help and stepped aside to let the coroners do their work when he couldn't.

Knows that this fucking idiot, this moron and the people he runs with may not be the kind of assholes who don't give a shit, but they're not the good guys here. 

Michael stares at the Vagabond, and the guy looks back like he's waiting to see what Michael's going to do, and Michael - 

“You sure you're not bleeding somewhere?”

“What? _No_ ,” the Vagabond sputters, indignant and puffing up like an offended cat, and Michael bites back a smile because he's so fucking stupid it's ridiculous.

Michael's starting to learn what everyone who's told him things aren't as clearcut as it would be elsewhere actually _means_ , and realizes he's pretty much okay with that.


End file.
